


your tongue is sharp, but i miss the taste of it

by thecopperkid



Series: hey stranger: i want you to catch me like a cold [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Feverishly Horny Billy Hargrove, Gross Hot, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Pollen, Steve Harrington Trying His Best, dubcon themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecopperkid/pseuds/thecopperkid
Summary: Billy looks sweaty as fuck. Abandoned his denim jacket, drenched through his thin t-shirt. He’s like, unbuckled, rolling around in the seat, all hunched in fetal position. Grabbing the crotch of his fucking pants.Then he really fucks with Steve’s shit.Says, “I need tocome,I think.”*Billy had one job -- don't take off the scarf. / Science is probably not Steve's strong suit, but he'sreallytrying to make sense of why Billy's suddenly found him so appealing.





	your tongue is sharp, but i miss the taste of it

**Author's Note:**

> "the chills" - peter bjorn & john
> 
> hi, I wish I could say I was sorry about this. much love.

They’re high on the back roads of Hawkins. As usual. Coming back from a party, already arguing — always fucking arguing (because Billy didn’t wanna leave yet, because he was _‘bout to get it in with that chick,_ he says) — when something runs out in front of Steve’s car.

It’s like, scary. ‘Cause the car’s out of control for a second. Steve loses his grip of the wheel, and everything’s _spinning,_ and he’s thinking, _please God, don’t let me die next to Billy Hargrove,_ but he reacts in time to swerve them off to the side. To relative safety.

Physically, they’re fine, yeah.

Just shaken up. Billy especially.

But that only lasts a second — then it transforms, boils, til he’s just _mad._ It’s amazing how he _flips shit_ like that.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me, Harrington?” he spits. “I look away for one fucking second and you go and pull _this_ stunt, you shoulda just let _me_ drive if you’re that fucked up—”

“Look, you think I did that on _purpose,_ asshole?” Steve’s still got a death clutch on the wheel, gone white-knuckled. “It just. Came out of _nowhere.”_

That’s something people always say, a figure of speech, but.

It really _did._ Come out of fucking nowhere.

“What the fuck _was_ it?” Billy asks, rising up in his seat to peer into the road, where Steve’s headlights stare, unblinking, ahead. Lighting up the other side of the forest.

“Maybe a deer,” Steve hears himself say. “There’s a lot out in the northern parts. And they get _scared,_ you know. Just run out, in front of cars.”

But that’s all him fucking hoping. _Praying._ That his instincts are wrong.

Hoping that this shit isn’t back, when he fucking _knows_ it is.

Because that wasn’t fucking big enough to be a deer, and it was too _wet_ to be somebody’s dog. The smears on the road are mainly blackish grey, not red.

Steve’s a nervous talker. So he’s still babbling about fucking _deer._ Like if he weaves a tale intricate enough, it’ll manifest itself in reality.

“I don’t know how they do it in California, but there’s so many of ‘em here that when you take driver’s classes, they make you watch these videos about what to do when you hit them, ‘cause like, you’re eventually _gonna_ hit one. And it goes against instinct but you’re not supposed to avoid it, you’re sort of supposed to, you know, hit it head on. Because otherwise you could drive off the road. But if you hit it wrong, it can like, _crush your windshield,_ and —”

_“Harrington.”_

“Yeah. Sorry.”

They’re out on the tar. Just standing there. Luckily no one’s come by yet, ‘cause Steve doesn’t know what he’d even say. What’s up with the monster? Why’s he alone with Billy Hargrove?

Those are _valid,_ sure, but he doesn’t have the answers.

Steve’s cinching his jacket tight around his neck, because it’s early March, and there’s no snow anymore but it’s fucking _cold._ Billy’s got his hips cocked, staring down at the thing while he smokes a cig. He doesn’t really seem that upset by it. Steve keeps waiting for him to _do_ something about it, anything, show that he’s human, maybe, but he just. _Doesn’t._

“So,” he says, finally. “It’s not a deer.”

“Shit, I know that,” Steve grouses. Grabbing fistfuls of hair. Trying to think. “I _know.”_

“Well, clearly _daddy_ never took you hunting,” Billy says around the filter. Like some old Western villain. “‘Cause I don’t know what to call that, but it ain’t no fucking _buck._ You must be dumber than you look.”

Steve just _glowers,_ and Billy continues, like anyone fucking asked him.

“Good thing you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Face like that, you could get away with murder.”

Smiling all saccharine like he does. Steve hates it.

“God, you’re so fucking _much,”_ Steve spits. “Would you give it a rest?”

“When I’m dead, princess.”

So Billy _knows_ about shit, now, which is maybe good or bad, or something, Steve’s not really sure which. But he’s still keeping it surprisingly cool.

Maybe that’s just shock.

It’s gotta be shock.

“Help me drag it.”

“Drag it _where?_ You wanna give it a proper burial?”

*

Steve tries to forget about that night, thinks that maybe it was a fluke.

But it turns out it’s more of a harbinger.

Because after that, someone goes missing in town. Some sophomore girl Steve doesn’t know. And everyone’s gossipping about it; there’s this lore about some trucker coming through and scooping her up at the diner. ‘Cause she was all daddy issues, and it was too easy to explain away like that.

The poor girl. Steve would vouch for her if it didn’t mean he’d have people trying to kill him, or whatever.

Of course the party assembles the brawn of the group to go after her. Fucking Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove. Which is kind of a pathetic rescue team, really. But _nobody else would be able to pull it off,_ Dustin had said. Because they didn’t want to worry Hopper if they didn’t have to. Didn’t want that little girl to have to through things again if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Nancy’s brother was adamant about it.

They’re in the tunnels and Billy’s _already_ complaining.

Talking about how he gets _claustrophobic_ or some shit. Saying he “can’t breathe.” That the scarf Steve’s secured over Billy’s mouth is _so gay,_ and it’s ruining his “whole look.”

Whatever kind of look denim on denim on denim is, like, alright.

“Dude, what the fuck is this grey shit,” he’s moaning. Looking down at his feet and shifting around in the muck. “I literally just got these boots—”

“I told you not to wear anything nice.”

“I don’t _own_ anything that isn’t nice.”

“This is, like. _So_ not the time to brag.”

Billy’s trying to take the lead, starts stalking out from behind Steve all fucking _macho,_ like he knows what’s up.

And Steve holds an arm out to catch Billy by the chest, like, “We gotta go over some stuff.”

Billy stops in his tracks and huffs. “Seriously? You already told me—”

“Hey, I’ve done this before, okay,” Steve says. Feels kind of proud about that. “And you haven’t.”

“I think it’s pretty straightforward,” Billy sneers. _“Don’t die._ I made it this far, didn’t I?”

“You’re not gonna make it any further unless you listen to me,” says Steve. He calls it over his shoulder as they edge down — down, what, a _corridor?_ “First off. Don’t fucking touch anything.”  
  
“No shit. I’m not an _idiot.”_

“Well, I had to be _sure,_ you’re not exactly known for your stellar judgement. Okay, second? I know I said this in the car earlier, but like. One more time. _Don’t_ take off that scarf.”

Because Hopper told them that it’s different down there lately. That the air’s like, thicker. And weirder. Makes people _hallucinate_ and do crazy shit, they say. Does different stuff to different people. And Steve doesn’t have a gas mask, so.

His mom’s scarf for Billy, it is.

“I gotta take it off. I can’t fucking breathe.”

He props the flashlight between his knees and reaches up, but Steve’s like, “Billy, _stop._ You’re gonna regret it.”

“But I’m gonna hyperventilate. I mean, say I _did_ take it off, what’s the worst that could happen  — would it like, turn me into a zombie? Like the Byers kid?”

“I don’t know, do you wanna _find out?”_

“No, I just. I thought you were wearing yours ‘cause you thought it was cute, or something.”

“Just shut up and help me look,” says Steve, spinning around in a circle. Shining the flashlight on squelching walls.

There’s a roar somewhere down the halls of the underground. More of a shriek, honestly. It sounds far off, but that fact doesn’t do anything to quell Steve’s nerves.

And before Steve’s got time to react to it, Billy’s _on_ him.

“What was that?” Billy says, horror-movie-quick, clutching Steve’s arm for balance.

God. That’s like.

_Gross._

Billy looks in between them and pulls off. Slaps his arm back at his side.

“I don’t _like_ that,” he says, absent. He stares blankly down into the abyss. It’s the first time Steve’s ever seen something like _fear_ in Billy’s eyes.

Steve pretends not to notice that, and he’s like, “I’m not wild about it, either, but we said we would.”

“I don’t care _what_ we said. I can’t fucking _breathe_ down here, Harrington. It’s like, the catacombs, or some shit. Seriously, I’m gonna pass out.”

And he _does_ sound sort of wheezy. Like he’s lightheaded. Like the air’s been sucked right out of him — maybe it _has_ been.

“You’re alright, okay? Just, whatever you do, don’t take off the scarf,” Steve tells him, firm. “You got that?”

Billy rolls his eyes. Crosses his arms across his chest. Doesn’t say anything.

“I said, _do you got that.”_

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I _got_ that.”

“Good. Now hurry up,” Steve says, mustering everything he has to keep it collected. “We gotta go check it out.”

“What?” Billy hisses. “No. _Not_ down. You have no frontal lobe. This is how you get smart people — people _like me —_ killed.”

“Did you think this missing girl would be sitting right here, waiting for you? Her _hero?_ That it would be that easy?”

“No, I just—“

“Why’d you even agree to this? To prove a point? Prove that you’re so fucking tough? Beating up little kids doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

Billy stares him down. Eyes gone cold.

“Fuck off, you know I didn’t touch that kid,” he says through gritted teeth. Shoves Steve back by his shoulder, but Steve doesn’t let it shake him, won’t give him that _satisfaction._ “Look. You can spend all fucking night down here if you like, but I’m going back up.”

“You can’t go _now,”_ says Steve. “It knows we’re here.”

“That sounds like a Harrington problem,” Billy says, already turning his back. Too bad he’s going the _wrong fucking way._ “When most people hear a fucked up sound, they don’t _run fucking toward it._ I’m outta here.”

Steve hears the wet sounds of Billy’s boots trudging over tentacle-like roots.

So Steve’s like, whatever.

He’s not fucking scared, like Billy is. He can _do_ this. He’s _gonna_ do it.

It’s like, he’s done this with the kids before, how bad can it be alone? They were really just in the way most of the time. Let their _emotions_ get the better of them, and shit. He just has to get in, get the girl, get out.

He’s sort of playing out the scenario, wondering what the fuck it is lurking down at the end of this tube he’s inching down, what’s the worst it could be ‘cause he kind of feels like he’s _seen it all,_ when —

A coughing fit. Echoing through the tunnel. Great.

“Hey,” Billy calls after he’s recovered. “Hey, Harrington?”

Voice unusually high. All apprehensive. Almost childish.

Steve’s back arches up like a cat.

 _“What?”_ he whispers behind him in exasperation.

“Don’t freak out at me.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“No, promise you won’t freak out, first.”

“Jesus Christ, Billy, just tell me what you fucking did—”

“I just have a _question,_ real quick—”

“Yeah, what’s your fucking question—”

“Is it bad if I took off the scarf?”

Steve huffs a sigh. With his shoulders, with his entire body. He’s exhausted.

Silence is probably the worst response for Billy to get, because now he’s walking back toward Steve, his flashlight backlighting him as it swings back and forth, and he’s like, _“That_ bad, huh? Look, I’ll tie it back on, see, like it never happened, right? It’s fine. I’m fine. Help me tie it.”

“This is _just_ like you,” Steve says. “I told you not to do, like, _one_ thing—”

“I didn’t know you were actually that _serious.”_

And then he’s sputtering. Hunching on his knees and expelling air, so a sickly yellow cloud diffuses in the cone-shaped beam of Steve’s flashlight.

“Billy,” Steve says, rushing to him before he can stop himself. He soothes a hand over his shoulder. “Fuck. Are you okay? Like. _Fuck.”_

Billy rises slowly. Dabs his mouth off with the scarf and wrinkles his nose like whatever’s left behind is gross. Because it _is._

“I’m fine,” he says, a little distant. Folds up the scarf. “Let’s just keep going.”

“We _can’t_ keep going,” Steve snarls. “I gotta get you to, like, the hospital, or something.”

“But what about the girl. And the _thing.”_

Steve looks one last time over his shoulder. Whatever it is, it _screams,_ on fucking cue.

But it’s gonna have to wait, because Billy’s knees give out, and he’s on the fucking ground.

*

Somehow Billy comes to enough that Steve doesn’t have to drag him all the way up, but.

They won’t make it to the hospital.

Steve already knows. And they probably shouldn’t go there anyway, because Steve can’t exactly tell them the truth. That an evil underground dimension poisoned Billy with noxious fumes.

Like, that’s just a surefire way to send them both to drug counseling, which to be fair, Billy could probably _use,_ but that’s kind of unrelated.

He _wants_ to help Billy. He feels responsible.

Billy’s mostly lucid now, in the passenger seat, squirming, and Steve is fucking _speeding._

“It _really_ hurts.”

Steve’s attention is split between the road ahead and Billy’s pained face. The way his lip curls, hissing against it. He’s clutching at his abdomen, like Steve’s old girlfriends used to on the first day of their period, when their cramps were at their most intense, like, _“Can you please run in the store and get me Advil, baby?”_

Somehow Steve doesn’t think Advil, or Midol or Steve’s mom’s fucking _Valium,_ is going to fix Billy.

“Harrington,” he’s moaning. “It hurts so bad. It motherfucking _hurts.”_

Steve’s unabashedly the type to say _I told you so,_ but this doesn’t feel like the right time.

So instead he says, “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But he doesn’t know that, doesn’t actually know _shit,_ doesn’t know if he should take Billy to the ER or to Hopper or to Joyce or to Hopper’s weird fucking mind control daughter, because they weren’t going to _go_ there but desperate times, right?

“Why didn’t I listen to you? You shoulda beat my _ass—”_

“It’s fine,” Steve says, careening into a left turn. There’s like, all kinds of horns honking at him, and they almost get into an accident, but _priorities,_ right.“You didn’t know any better.”

“It hurts like a _motherfucker._ You still got that booze in here?”

“No,” Steve says. Well, he _does,_ but. “You’re sick. We have to figure that out first before you do anything stupid. It could cause, like, a _reaction._ I don’t know. Just tell me what’s wrong. What’s it feel like.”

“I don’t know,” Billy groans. “It hurts. It’s like. _Fuck._ It started in my lungs, burning, like I was constantly hitting a joint, you know? And then, it spread, and it’s like, everything is screaming at me, real loud, and I can _smell_ everything, I can smell your stupid fucking hairspray and your detergent and your mint lip balm and I feel like—“

Billy looks sweaty as fuck. Abandoned his denim jacket, drenched through his thin t-shirt. He’s like, unbuckled, rolling around in the seat, all hunched in fetal position. Grabbing the crotch of his fucking pants.

Then he really fucks with Steve’s shit.

Says, “I need to _come,_ I think.”

Steve fucking.

Snorts.

“That’s _not_ funny, not even kind of funny—“

“I’m serious,” Billy says. Glaring daggers from the passenger seat. “It hurts really bad. The only thing that makes it stop is when I rub my palm on my dick like _this."_

And Steve doesn’t know why, what compels him to do so, but he’s prompted, so he’s _looking_ and Billy’s rutting against his hand. Cheeks pink, hair damp with sweat around his temples and his neck, chest working furiously. He looks feverish.

Steve almost fucking _crashes_ for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“Dude, what the _fuck.”_

“I’m sorry, okay?” Billy hisses. “I’m not _proud_ of this, alright? You think I want you to watch me do this?”

“This is, like, crossing _so_ many fucking boundaries, though—“

“I feel like I’m gonna die, and like — _ugh,_ it’s so — it feels so fucking _good._ It makes it _stop._ It makes everything quiet.”

“God, just,” Steve says. “Can you, just. Keep it in your pants? Keep your shit _together_ for five minutes? We’re almost to my house.”

He didn’t know they were going there.

But _now_ they are.

It’s not like he can bring Billy anywhere _else_ like this.

“Harrington,” Billy’s whining, chewing on his lip. There’s actual beads of sweat forming at his hairline. Dribbling down his face. “God, you smell like you’re trying to _get dick._ Like, you smell like you want _my_ dick. Is that fucked up?”

Steve is never going to recover from this, probably.

Billy’s fucking panting. He’s _panting!_ Reaching inside his fucking pants and rubbing himself. Bulbous muscles in his arm working.

Steve is going to _kill_ the kids for putting him in this scenario.

There’s, like, _also_ the impending doom of monsters splitting the fabric of the dimension Steve knows and loves, precisely as they speak, but like.

Billy Hargrove is _jerking off his dick_ under his pants in the car Steve’s dad bought him for his sixteenth birthday and Steve just doesn’t love those kids enough to put up with this.

It gets worse, ‘cause Billy doesn’t have stage fright or anything — it’s as if Steve’s not even there. Which he really wishes he wasn’t, but he’s here, at the intersection near his house, waiting for the light to turn green, and it doesn’t seem to _want_ to, it’s like it _knows_ what Steve’s dealing with. That Billy’s working his cock over furiously, eyes squeezed tight, mouth gone slack.

His cheeks, they’re so fucking _pink._

Billy makes this ungodly, strangled noise and yeah, in case there were any questions about it — he’s coming, he’s _fucking_ coming, he’s fucking _coming in his pants_ and Steve can only stare in horror under the red light as a dark stain begins to seep through denim, blossoming out over Billy’s crotch.

It’s like.

 _So_ fucking deadly quiet after that.

Steve wants to evaporate. He’s starting to wish he was in that _tunnel,_ still, and that’s _saying_ something.

But instead he’s still stuck at the fucking light.

He opens his mouth. He’s not even sure why, doesn’t know what his plan with that is, but he does, and he’s trying to make something like a sound come out when Billy cuts him off. Voice croaking so quiet Steve has to really listen to make sense of it.

 _“Don’t._ Don’t fucking _say_ anything.”

His hand’s still down his pants. God. Like he doesn’t wanna pull it out because of the mess and everything. He looks _mortified,_ won’t face Steve.

And then he’s fucking moaning, not like he did when he blew his load, no. It’s like. That pained noise he was making earlier. Distraught and worse than before, even.

“It _still_ hurts. It hurts so bad. Mother _fucker.”_

“What the fuck,” Steve says. “Dude, what the _fuck,_ I think we need to get you to the doctor’s.”

“No,” whines Billy. “No, it doesn’t want that — take me to your _house. Please.”_

It’s mostly silent again, except for that Billy’s biting his lip, suppressing himself as he builds up a rhythm again with his fist. Wrist caught by the tightness of his still-buttoned jeans.

_“What?”_

“I don’t _know,_ it hurts, it _hurts,_ please, Harrington, I can’t _think_ straight—”

“That thing you just said, though. What _was_ that.”

Billy stops fussing for a second. “No fuckin’ clue.”

Resumes fucking his hand. Christ. At least they’re pulling into Steve’s driveway now.

“I’m kinda freaking out,” Billy says. “What if I can never go back to normal?”

“You’re gonna,” Steve says. “Look, we’re here now. You’re gonna be okay, you just need to get in the shower, alright? You’re not gonna pass out again, right?”

Steve’s already over at Billy’s side of the car, yanking the door open and trying not to look because Billy’s still got his fucking hand on his cock. Steve can see the bulge of his fist covering it.

“Can you, like. _Go inside_ or something. I’ll meet you there.”

*

The shower doesn’t work.

Billy’s in there for like, twenty minutes, jerking off, which Steve can tell because he can hear him come _every single time,_ as much as he wishes he could block it out. Even when Steve puts on the news downstairs, tries to drown out the sound with the vague droning of tonight’s anchor, he can hear Billy hitting his climax.

Advil doesn’t work, either, for the record.

But that was worth a shot, right?

When Billy comes out, he’s fucking red. Whether that’s from being riddled with fever or from scalding himself under the water, that’s to be decided, but his skin looks blotchy, irritated.

Still looks fucking built, though, so Steve’s averting his eyes.

Because in all his hysteria, Billy seems to have forgotten what little modesty he had left. He’s all fucking _silly._ Just standing there in the doorway, naked, dick raging up. It’s practically hitting his stomach. He doesn’t look like he knows where the fuck he is.

“I can smell you.”

“Jesus,” Steve’s saying. _“Jesus,_ Hargrove. Can you put on some fucking clothes?”

“Mine are all gross,” he says. “Need yours.”

Steve lends him an old camp shirt that looks like a fucking _crop top_ on him. Throws some basketball shorts at him, and they’re too fucking tight, so it looks a little obscene as he lies in Steve’s bed, but like.

Steve’s not _looking,_ in any case. He’s pacing by his window. Trying to figure out what to do, if he should call someone, and if so, _who_ that should be.

“Look, okay,” Steve’s saying. “While you were showering, I was thinking. Think you mighta, like. Breathed in some of the spores, y’know? Like… like how dandelions make those little blowy things that get all over the fucking lawn, like it’s _spreading_ itself.”

“You’re saying you think I’m infected,” Billy says. His back arches as he tries to counteract the pain coursing over his body. “Infected by a _plant monster._ Like it tried to — what, _fuck_ me?”

“I’m not like, a _florist,_ or whatever,” says Steve. “I don’t fucking know. I’m just. Making _inferences._ Or like, you know when animals give off those sex chemicals that make them need to fuck? Pheromones. What if you’re all doped on those. Or it’s making your body _think_ you’re doped on them. Like, hallucinogen shit.”

He nibbles at his thumb nail, which he’d thought he’d given up, but not all the way, apparently. Chewing, watching for Billy’s reaction.

Reason doesn’t seem to appeal to Billy, though. He’s still moaning. Writhing in Steve’s bed. He’s broken into a fresh sweat, so he’s getting the pure white sheets all fucking dirty, probably.

“Can you like, _not_ do that,” Steve’s saying. He doesn’t intend to, it just sort of comes out. “I’m trying to think.”

Billy whips his head up, gets on his fucking elbows all snotty, like, “Oh, _sorry,_ let me be more _considerate._ ”

Steve sighs. “Hey, I didn’t _mean_ that — I know I don’t understand and all, but I just. I can’t think with you _doing_ that. It doesn’t sound like pain, it sounds like you’re _railing_ someone.”

Billy’s flipped over now. Onto his stomach, so his round ass is sticking in the air while he humps his hips into Steve’s _fucking_ bed.

 _“Wish_ I was,” he grunts over the creak of the mattress. And his voice is all coy. Innocent and pouty and Steve doesn’t want to _think_ about that. “I have this theory.”

Fucking great. Just what Steve wants to hear.

He looks at Billy, like, _yes?_

Billy growls, rumbling gravelly in his throat. Rolls his hips in circles. “I was thinkin’, like. I think it, whatever _it_ is. It’s smart, right? It knows that it’s just me. Jacking off. But maybe there has to be somebody else. Otherwise, what’s the point of coming, right? By its logic, I mean.”

Steve feels his mouth run dry.

“Okay, what the fuck,” he says, covering his eyes. “What the fuck, is that really _you_ in there? Is that the guy who beat my ass?”

“Come on, Harrington,” Billy’s saying. Hips still working as he stretches arms above his head, clutches at the fluffy down of the pillows. “You gotta help me. You said it yourself, I’m all _sick._ And I know it sounds pretty batshit, but like. I think I _know_ what it feels like when I gotta come, and this is like. Worse than it’s ever been.”

“What do you want _me_ to do about it?”

“I’m just saying,” Billy continues, and now he’s peeling out of Steve’s shorts. Kicking them up in the air so they drop off to the foot of the bed. “I’ve come like, _six_ times, which I couldn’t do until literally _today_ , and it won’t let up. It still hurts. It’s like. I’m gonna _die—”_

“No. _No._ I know what you’re getting at, and I’m not doing shit. This where I draw the line, alright?”

“Harrington,” Billy pleads. Fucking _pleads._ “All I need is a handjob. Swear on my life. No kissing or gay shit, okay? I promise. Just, I need some help. Think of it as a favor.”

And it’s kinda ironic, or something, right. That this _happened._ Between them, of all people. When everybody knows Steve Harrington fucks guys sometimes. Billy fucking knows. The way he holds that over him, like it’s a _weird_ or _wrong_ thing to be — when _Billy’s_ the one demanding, _begging,_ to be touched by Steve.

It’s kinda funny but it’s also fucked up. Some kind of power dynamic Steve’s not sure he’s ready to handle.

He’s just. Watching Billy flip over again. The way he licks his hand and slicks himself, rubbing his length with a crazed look in his eye. Of course it’s disgusting, fucking gross, but it’s also kind of Steve’s _dream._ That whole thing of wanting to fuck a friend, harboring those feelings, watching that person change or shower or do other innocuous shit and having to bury it deep, all in order to build something that was supposed to be trust.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve’s saying. _“Jesus._ Some fucking _favor._ Okay, okay. If you promise you’ll shut the fuck up. I’ll fucking. _Jack you off._ Or whatever. Fuck.”

Billy’s rolling around on his back, tossing back and forth, but he stops when he hears that. Snaps his head to look at Steve, like, “You will?”

“Yeah, _yeah,_ I _guess._ I mean. If that’s what you really need, I _guess_ I could. ‘Cause I was the one that brought you down there.”

So Steve’s edging toward his bed. Prowling Billy’s body with his eyes.

Billy’s looking at him like no one’s quite there. He’s got a spaciness about him as he observes Steve perching on the bed. Tucking his legs up underneath him as he kneels at Billy’s waist.

“This is, like, really fucking weird,” Steve breathes.

“You think?” Billy says. He’s leaning back on his elbows. Staring at the ceiling. Breathing heavy, like a dying animal.

Billy’s cock is already sticky wet. Rubbed raw, red, and drooling all over itself. Steve feels like throwing up, but.

Also his own dick’s hard, so that’s new.

Steve just. Reaches out.

And Billy grabs him by the wrist in impatience. Guides Steve’s hand to his mouth and licks up it with the flat of his tongue, _really_ going all out to get it wet. It tickles, tempts Steve to yank his hand away.

They’re making eye contact the whole time through the cracks between Steve’s fanned out fingers, and it makes his stomach flip, gone fluttery.

“Do you want me to, like. Put on music, or a movie or something, so we don’t have to hear each other, don’t have to fucking _look_ at each other—”  
  
“No,” Billy roars, incredulous. “That’s worse. Said no _gay_ shit.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says. He lets himself be lead down Billy’s tight body. Over the marled grey shirt that he’s soaked with sweat, dark half circles around the neck and armpits. He looks away as his palm bumps into Billy’s wet cock.

When Steve’s fingers wrap around it, Billy’s breath hitches, and then he fucking _purrs,_ there’s just no other way to describe the sound.

“Working?” Steve blurts. Almost giddy, because the sooner it works, the sooner this is over.

And the sooner Steve can have his mom schedule him an appointment with her therapist.

“Not sure,” says Billy. “Better, but. You gotta, like. Rub it.”

Yeah, he knows, of _course_ Steve has to. That’s just his fucking luck.

Steve slides his fist up and down, feels the glide of silky sensitive skin, and Billy’s already blissed out. Angling his hips up, moaning. Like a bitch in heat.

“You smell pretty,” Billy says faintly.

“I better,” says Steve. Fists over the head, stroking him, slow. “My cologne’s not cheap. See?”

The slick sounds of Billy’s wet cock are deafening as Steve hunches forward, lets Billy sniff in the general direction of his neck.

Billy fucking _groans,_ and his dick jumps frustratedly in Steve’s hand.

“I don’t think it’s your cologne,” Billy mutters, and it’s almost a timid thing, his voice.

His head lolls over to the side, lazy, but he stops moving abruptly when he sees the bulge in Steve’s pants.

Steve _feels_ him looking. It’s like lasers are coming out of his eyes.

“Oh my God. You want me.”

Steve scoffs. “No, you’re disgusting, I don’t _want_ you—”

“You’re hard.”

“I’m — it’s like. A physiological response. I’d get hard touching, like, _Hopper’s_ dick, for God’s sake.”

“Gross,” Billy says. “Gross, you fucking whack it to the chief?”

“No,” Steve corrects. “Fuck, _no,_ I just. I was making a point. You get that, right?”

“What I _get_ is that you wanna fuck Hopper,” Billy’s saying, and he might be _gone,_ but that fucking bitchy humor still remains.

And Steve’s livid now. He’s shit at hiding emotion, so he’s telegraphing that, making it so obvious how Billy’s gotten a rise out of him, and.

Billy takes note. He looks like he’s _getting off_ on it, which is probably the case.

“Yeah,” he’s saying, drawling, all slow. “Yeah, _get_ pissed, princess. It’s _so_ fucking hot. You gonna stomp your little foot? And toss your curls?”

He’s fucking laughing, _laughing_ at Steve like he’s drunk, and Steve is indignant — seeing _red._

And he knows he would hate it if Billy did to him, what he’s about to do next, so.

He fucking leans closer. Doesn’t stop jerking Billy off, but shoves a finger in Billy’s ass with the other hand, dry. All the way, against the resistance, ‘til he can’t fucking go any further, up to the knuckle. Pushing into that hot tightness, that’s probably never been touched in this way before.

He watches with satisfaction bordering on sadism as Billy _howls._

And like that, Billy’s _coming._ Again.

His eyes roll into the back of his head while it wracks over his body and he practically sobs out against it. Kicking his legs in the sheets and balling his fists up in them, too. Whining “Harrington,” like that’s the only word he knows.

Steve revels in the sight. It’s almost a little fun, being the one to control that, like Billy’s his fucking puppet. Steve knows he shouldn’t feel as pleased with himself as he does.

The strange thing, though?

Is that it comes up dry. It’s like Billy’s spent himself so much, there isn’t anything left to give. His cock throbs in Steve’s hand, Steve can feel the powerful contractions in Billy’s hole, but still, the waves don’t _produce_ anything. Helpless pulsing.

As much as Steve would like to get this over with, tug himself away, he lets Billy have his hands until he’s totally done.

“Good,” Steve doesn’t mean to say, but _does,_ because he’s just so amped on adrenaline. “So good. See? You’re fine. You finished.”

Billy’s just laying there. Chest rising and falling at an inhuman rate as he comes down from the euphoria.

But maybe it wasn’t euphoria at all, because he tucks his head into the crook of his arm like he can’t look at Steve, and says darkly, “I don’t fuckin’ _feel_ like I did.”

Something in Steve sinks.

“‘Cause you’re not really finished,” he says, pulling _out_ of and _off_ of Billy, who fusses at the loss. _“Are_ you.”

Billy huffs a sigh. Has begun tossing and turning again, like his skin’s on fire.

“I don’t think a handjob’s gonna cut it, Harrington,” Billy says. “Jesus. Is my dick broken?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Because this is a lot, like, they only _just_ got over that time when Billy beat his face in. The implications of this would cause a whole new rift between them that would be difficult to bridge again.

And suddenly Billy’s _yelping,_ arching off the bed and crying out. Sweat-soaked shirt riding up his abs.

“Mother _fucker,”_ he’s saying again. “Being around you makes it worse. I can _smell_ you, fuck. Don’t wanna say you were _right,_ but you might be, about this. About those _chemicals._ It almost smells _bad,_ it’s so good.”

Steve feels hopeless.

He just watches him twist in the sheets.

He’s here to help him, after all — at least that’s what he’s telling himself, that it’s not wish fulfillment of some perverted sexual conquest from his worst fantasies, and it’s not that he’s making Billy into his own personal science experiment, either.

Steve looks off at his fucking sports trophies. Medals and ribbons and shit. Some random point to fixate on, so he doesn’t have to look at Billy trying to _fucking seduce him._ Focuses on these intently while he’s like, “What if using hands, that’s _cheating._ What if you need to have sex. Like. Real sex.”

Saying it’s quiet in there isn’t the truth, because Billy’s perpetually moaning.

But it does feel significant. Hanging in the air. Like what Steve just said, is a _thing,_ now. They could’ve still maybe, _maybe_ , come back from this before, but Steve just took it the rest of the way.

 _“Steve,”_ says Billy, soft. “I don’t, like, want to make you do something you’re not into, but —”

“It’s okay if you do,” he says. “Need to do this, I mean.”

“With you.”

Because is it so _wrong_ that he’s horny, now? After watching all this, after jerking off Billy Hargrove, is that so fucking wrong?

 _“Yes,_ with me,” says Steve. But then. “I mean. I could always call someone if you want, like a _girl_ —”

“No,” says Billy. “Not enough time. I need it now. I’m gonna, like. Rip my fucking skin off if we don’t.”

“You sure this isn’t just a way to get in my pants?”

“Believe me,” Billy tells him, laughing humorlessly, shallow, low in his throat. “I don’t usually have to get this creative."

“Right, so,” Steve says. “Tell me what you need.”

But Billy lurches forward. Grabs Steve by the cheek and _kisses_ him, wet full lips pressing to Steve’s own. Steve kisses back, lets Billy desperately tongue into his mouth. Billy smells like sweat, and tastes salty like it, too. Tastes like after hours in the locker rooms. In the back of college guys’ cars.

Steve wonders if it’s true what Billy said. That his senses are enhanced. Wonders what he tastes like, now, to Billy.

They meld into each other, ‘til Billy pulls him backward against the pillows, with Steve on top, straddling Billy’s waist.

“Thought you said no _gay_ shit,” Steve says as Billy _tears_ both their shirts off. Steve likes the way Billy’s hair shakes out after he tugs off his own. “You were pretty clear, like, no _kissing—”_

Billy’s eyebrows get mean, the way they do. “You want my cock or not, pretty boy?”

“I do. Fuck. I do.”

“So get me a fucking condom.”

Steve spreads palms over Billy’s chest, hesitant. Billy rocks their hips together with impatience.

Some sorta yin and yang about it.

“What if that doesn’t work, though? Because it thinks you’re trying to trick it, again? I’m just thinking, I’d hate to have to do this _again,_ you know, so—“

“Maybe you’re smarter than I thought,” Billy hums in accord while he ruts up against Steve’s jeans. “Okay. Take these off.”

So he _does,_ albeit a little ungracefully, a little too enthusiastically, and sinks back into Billy’s lap. Billy’s hands are instantly all over him. Grabbing his bare ass with both hands.

“Need to come inside you,” Billy says into the skin just behind Steve’s ear, and Steve’s a shivering mess. “You gonna take it?”

“Yes,” Steve blurts. “Yeah. Please.”

“You smell like sex,” Billy says. “Smell like you want my cock. So _pretty.”_

Steve has to skim over the way that strokes his pride. Makes him feel like he’s glowing. Because he can’t take it too seriously, take it too much to heart — because Billy’s fucking _out of it._

“Shut _up,_ Hargrove,” Steve says. “You don’t have to make it _weird.”_

“Sorry. Maybe it’s the monster talking.” Smiling all impish. Pearly, sharp canines.

“Don’t talk about fucking _monsters_ when I’m about to ride your dick.”

Billy can’t argue with that, so he spits into his hand and reaches between them, rewets his cock with it.

Steve puts two fingers in Billy’s mouth. Presses them in, deep, ‘til he can feel the rougher, bumpier texture at the back. Billy watches him with sick, bleary eyes as he takes them down his throat.

  
And when Steve starts opening himself up on his own fingers, with Billy’s spit as lube? Jaw purposefully agape, to make Billy _want_ it?

Yeah, Billy looks like he’s gonna lose his _mind._ Maybe he already has.

He’s grappling for the sloping lines of Steve’s hips, trying to gain traction despite the tremble in his fingers.

“Lemme know when you’re ready,” Billy’s saying, squirming again. “Fuck. It hurts when I don’t touch you.”

Steve rises up on his knees, guides Billy to his hole. It’s like they forgot how to breathe, they’re being so careful.

When Billy’s hips roll up to meet him, it’s pure ecstasy. They’re both so wet it doesn’t take much for him to slide in deep.

And then Billy lets go. Doesn’t give Steve a chance to ease into it, just fucks up into him, holding him by his hips, digging his nails in.

“I’m sorry,” he’s muttering, actually _apologizing_ as he thrusts inside. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just — I _have_ to —“

Steve gasps, and it rattles in his chest. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. Too much.”

“Stop?” Billy’s hips slow, even though it’s clear it takes _everything_ inside him to resist, to keep it contained.

“I didn’t say _stop,_ I mean _slow,_ it’s different,” Steve bitches. “Just let me, okay? Let me—”

“God, you’re like, meant to take my cock,” Billy’s saying. “So fucking _tight.”_

Steve’s feeling dizzy at that. Dizzy at this idea that Billy’s all _animal._ Fucked out on extradimensional mind control chemicals. It’s kinda, like. Sad. But it’s also hot.

So he’s like, “Talk to me.”

And Billy’s like, “Yeah, take my dick, you fucking slut.”

Steve growls. “Not like _that,_ douchebag. I meant, like. Tell me. Tell me what’s going _on_ with you right now. You know?”

Billy watches Steve through half shut eyes. Euphoric, just making Steve take it, when he sort of catches on. “Harrington,” he says. “That’s like, weird.”

Steve anchors his weight down. Holds Billy back so it’s difficult to thrust up. Says, “If you don’t, I stop. And you can figure this out on your own.”

They’re paused like that, and it seems to go on forever, like they’re having a contest. Both too stubborn to submit.

But then he’s got Billy whining, desperately trying to pick up the pace and establish movement again, craving the way Steve’s ass drags around his cock.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, okay, _okay._ It’s like. Everything is burning. Like when you take a cheap vodka shot, you know, and it stings real bad? It’s like that, it’s just. _Everywhere,_ and.”

“And?”  
  
“And, your skin, your body, your fuckin’ _smell,_ it feels like. Aloe, on a sunburn. Am I making sense?”

Steve feels lightheaded at Billy talking about him like that. He can feel Billy, all the way in, thickness splitting Steve wide, and it’s overwhelming.

“The way I _smell,_ huh?”

Billy’s nodding, lip caught between white teeth as he groans. “Yeah. Could smell you a mile away. It’s like your body wants my dick that bad.”

“What do I smell like?” Steve’s pressing, licking up the column of Billy’s neck. Tasting the familiar saltiness of his skin. It’s hot under Steve’s tongue.

“I _told_ you.”

“Tell me again, or I’ll stop.”

“Like, _mint_ and _hairspray_ and _laundry—_ ”

“Yeah, that’s what’s _on_ me, but what else. What do _I_ smell like.”

Billy won’t meet his eyes as he fucks up into his heat, mumbles, “Like. Fucking. _Strawberries and cream.”_

That’s got Steve’s dick twitching. Thickening up even more than it already has to begin with.

“That’s a lot going on,” he says. “That’s fucking _hot.”_

“I know, I hate it, it’s too much,” Billy’s whimpering. “It’s all I can think about. Just wanna. Pick you up and throw you on the floor, and like. _Fuck_ you into it.”

Steve drapes his arms over Billy’s shoulders. Holds him close while he lets himself get fucked, feels Billy’s necklace bump between them. Feels how his skin is slick with sweat as they grind into each other.

“I’m gonna come,” Billy’s blurting, like the sensation’s surprising him. “Inside you.”

“Yeah?” Steve coaxes. “Gonna come for me, Hargrove?”

“Yes,” he whines, neck thrown back, strained, as he drives into Steve from below. Holds his ass down and fucks up into it. “Kiss me, again.”

Steve’s quiet, disbelieving. Just bouncing on Billy’s cock. Letting him do all the work.

Billy doesn’t like waiting, so he tugs Steve close and licks over Steve’s lips. Disgusting. The gruff stubble scratching over Steve’s clean-shaven face. The fullness of his lips. That way he works his fucking _tongue._ He’s just. Dirty-hot.

But it has Steve’s dick begging to be stroked off. Swollen pink, bobbling between his legs every time Billy slams in.

Steve reaches between them, unable to stop the urge, and begins getting himself off. Smearing spit and pre over the head, dribbling down the length. He feels _relief_ at the sensation.  

And Billy’s hips stutter, uneven and jagged, pushed all the way in so his cockhead hits Steve’s prostate. Billy moans, tortured and destroyed as he spills out inside Steve. It’s like Steve can _feel_ it, too, the way Billy’s cock throbs, abused, inside him. Can feel his come, warm and wet and full, coating him.

Billy’s breathing is labored, his curls completely soaked as he comes down. His speech sounds a little slurred when he says, “Come for me, Harrington. I wanna see it. See how much you love taking my dick.”

Steve’s all too happy to indulge him on that.

He’s fucking his fist, sitting up and adjusting, fucking _hissing_ as Billy’s still-hard cock slips out from the tight grip of his ass. He can feel come leaking out, drippy, from the overstimulated rim of his hole.

Billy drinks it all in like he’d _devour_ Steve if he had anything left in him to do so.

“You’re so close,” Billy’s all sweet-talk. Running his fingers up the backs of Steve’s thighs, and that’s got Steve quaking, all tickled. “Look how fucked you are. It’s _so_ fucking hot.”

“Where should I—?”

But he doesn’t really have time to think about that, because he’s coming, it’s bubbling up and exploding out of him, so fucking good he almost shouts. He digs fingers into Billy’s shoulder with one hand while he strokes himself through the orgasm with the other, come shooting lazily out of the tip.

It goes fucking everywhere. The majority all over Billy’s perfect tanned chest, up frenzied and volcano-like, catching Billy’s upper lip and the corner of his mouth. It drips down his chin, and he’s fucking licking it up like he’s _hungry_ for it. Using his thumb to push in what he missed. Sucking it clean.

“Did it work?” Steve’s asking, once he’s recovered enough to breathe normally. “Please tell me it did.”

They look down in between them, and Billy’s cock has begun shrinking down to its normal flaccid size, and that feels all too fucking good, _rewarding,_ even.

Billy collapses back against the pillows, like, “I could use a fucking drink.”

*

It’s so fucking awkward, then.

Billy’s got his knees drawn up to his chest. Sitting in the farthest corner of Steve’s bed, perched uncomfortably there, while Steve’s in the bathroom connected to his room. Just sitting on the edge of the tub. Door open, so they can hear each other, but don’t have to _look_ at the other. Trying to get as far away as possible from all this.

“Are you, like,” Billy finally tries. “Okay?”

“Jesus,” Steve says. “I’m fucking _fine,_ alright, I don’t need you to like, cuddle me or whatever —“

Because no _gay shit,_ remember.

“I’m just making sure you’re not _possessed,_  now. Relax.”

“Not possessed. Just. It’s a _lot.”_

Steve can hear Billy sigh, deep in his chest. “I feel like I should be saying ‘thank you’ right now—”

“Don’t. You shouldn’t. That’s _worse.”_

“Okay, okay, that’s what I thought, that’s why I said ‘I _feel_ like,’ I didn’t actually _say_ it—”

“Don’t fucking tell anyone about this,” Steve says. “Understand me?”

  
Billy’s snort echoes in the bathroom. “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess. Wouldn’t _dream.”_


End file.
